


The Deep Expanse

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Exophilia, F/M, Fake Marriage, Gen, Human/Monster Romance, Just Some Regular Ol' Sex, Kind of enemies to lovers, Selkie - Freeform, Smut, frenemies to lovers, shipwrecked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-02-04 08:52:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: There were a lot of endings you thought this expedition could have, but being stranded on a volcanic island with your bitter coworker was not one of them.At least he's hot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! Part one of the 1K celebration! I will immediately start writing part two, but I hope you all are satisfied with the storyline I came up with. There will be a part two with a'bangin'

The water churns against the sides of the rusty boat, froth and ripples bouncing against the hull and out back to the sea. The good old  _Athena_  follows one of the main currents flowing out from the mainland, though it’s already been hours since you first boarded the little ship, the captain gives no sign of turning back now. Wind lashes at your face, bitter with salt, and you pull your heavy raincoat closer as you eye the stormy horizon with a sense of weariness. A flash of lightning fizzles through the dark, angry clouds, brightening the sky in a single, brilliant spark that only lasts a portion of a second.

 

You look to the side, trying to spot Captain Ivan through the blurry plastic windows of the sad, metal shack of the  _Athena’s_  bridge, though can’t make out his imposing figure through the rattling door. One of your coworkers slams it shut, though the metal continues to grate as the wind sweeps against the boat mercilessly. All you want is some reassurance that the expedition is stopping, that the tub of a ship is about to turn around and ride the wind to shore, but you just received a greenish tinted face as your coworker bends over the railing and proceeds to vomit.

 

A crackle of thunder echoes over the sea, the waves steadily getting more and more choppy as the storm approaches, and your stress levels begin to reach astronomical. Your knuckles go pale as you grip the rusting handhold, banging your fist over the weak metal of the hold’s trapdoor, knowing that sometimes the damn thing locks itself from the inside. Someone on the other side pushes up in your aid, an ungodly shriek coming from the ancient hinges as the door pops open.

 

As you shimmy down the ladder to the lab below, a thick drop of fresh water smashes against your forehead, cold enough to almost be sleet. Computers flash, their screens displaying a quickly shifting amount of data, one of the radars pinging steadily along with the heavy pounding of rain as the storm’s wall fully hits. You hastily reach over to the trapdoor, yanking it shut just as a stream of water tries rushing for the opening, almost too numb with cold to manage it on time. One of the scientists, long, lanky, glances up at the ceiling as though it is about to collapse at any moment, shoulders up as their fingers tap against the table.

 

“How does it look out there?” They ask, pushing up a thick pair of glasses up their nose.

 

“Real ugly.” There’s no use in sugar coating it, Captain Ivan is a goddamn idiot that’s probably going to get you all killed.

 

“I keep telling you all that coming all the way out here was a bad idea.” This time, it’s Fylkir who speaks, glaring at you from behind his monitor, face washed in blue light.

 

“And this is the first time out of twenty-six that you are actually right.” Your tone sours as you snap back, nerves fritzing on end from the stress of the storm and the reminder that  _he’s_  here.

 

“This is the first time we’ve strayed this close to the Greenland current.” He scowls at you, freckled face pinching with distaste. “Despite my many protests. And it looks like you are about to pay for it, dearly.”

 

The boat rocks ominously, papers and notebooks sliding from their places on the desks, a loud creaking like a trumpeter of death, metal straining to keep in one piece.  _This is fine,_  you try to reassure yourself, _we’ve been through worse. The_ Athena  _can handle one rainstorm._

 

Thunder explodes around the ship, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin.

 

“I suppose you are exempt from your hypothetical reckoning, just like you think you are exempt from the basic rules of the ship.” You cross your arms over your chest, embarrassed to be caught scared.

 

Before he can answer, one of the radios crackles to life, one of the navigator’s voices coming through the speakers. “There’s a military vessel about two klicks away, we’re going to try to dock with them to ride out the storm.”

 

A bit of relief runs through your body at the thought of experiencing the danger on a much larger ship, one made to outlive a nuclear fallout. “See?” You say to Fylkir, willing your voice not to wobble. “We’re going to be fine.”

 

He just shakes his head, russet hair falling into his eyes, and mutters something under his breath in a language you don’t recognize as you pick up the radio to confirm the statement. “Roger that, we’ll wait for your order in the hold.”

 

As the ship rocks again, you take a seat in one of the swivel chairs that is bolted to the floor, eyes flickering over to one of the chirping deepsea radars. Something white flashes in its upper corner a split second before everything in the ship goes dark, your monitor snapping off before you could confirm the object’s existence.

 

“What the fuck?” You ask, trying not to panic. Just a problem with the generator, probably. The main control box is in this room, anyway, the three of you could probably reset the thing yourselves.

 

A flashlight nearly blinds you, following a quick “I’m sorry” as the scientist hastily points it at the ceiling. From your vantage point, you can see the breaker box, and that Fylkir is already poking over the vast array of switches and buttons. A loud clank echoes around the cabin, the lights overhead flickering back on, monitors flashing with error messages, and desktops whirring as they reset themselves. The radar blinks, the systems slowly but steadily readying itself to use once more.

 

Your foot taps nervously as you listen to the wind, screaming, roaring, rattling at the hull of the ship, clicking the mouse as though that will aid in the speed of the reboot. An oceanography map pops up, showing about a three-kilometer radius around the ship, and the small electromagnetic waves resume. After a hasty moment of staring into the screen hard enough to strain your eyes, you decide it must have been your imagination, or maybe some kind of fritz from losing power.

 

Something moans from outside, which you put off as just the metal straining with the pressure. The radio blinks, the speakers crackling to life as the navigator announces that the  _Athena_  is coming up to the military vessel and that everyone in the hold should probably make their way up deck. Just as you stand, hastily zipping up your coat, the radar begins to sound its proximity alert. You glance over, thinking it must be the military vessel, or maybe a stray dolphin, but no. It’s something big, something worse. Before you can even read the influx of data, something rocks the ship, slamming up and throwing you to the side.

 

Fylkir is the one who keeps you from cracking your head open on a table corner, quickly grabbing the front of your jacket and pulling you back up. Before you can even debate on thanking him (he’s still is an asshole, and probably won’t ever let you down for this), something low pitched and loud howls just beyond the creaking hull, rage and fury radiating through the thick material.

 

“We need to leave,” you say, stating the obvious to try and make some sense of whatever is happening.

 

That seems to break the frozen tension between the others. You move for the ladder, trying for the trapdoor, but the damn thing has locked itself and won’t open. Fingers clammy with stress and panic, you jiggle at the lock, pulling and yanking until it loosens and switches back, and push. At first, nothing happens, the hinges squealing with strain. Then you try again, shoving your entire body up against the door, grunting with the effort, and manage to push it just a few inches up. That’s all it takes for the wind to snag the metal, lifting the trapdoor away from the entrance and snapping it backward.

 

Water splashes against your coat as the water on the deck now rushes to fill the hold, almost eager to fry all the computer equipment. Whatever, you don’t have the brain power to feel bad about it now. You climb up, pausing for a minute to help the scientist, their clothes already completely drenched through, teeth beginning to chatter to fight the cold. True to the navigator’s word, there, to the side, people are already working to secure the ship against the military vessel, though the rain obscures most of their actions from view.

 

Something rumbles in the water, and though you don’t exactly want to know what it is, you still turn your head to look, leaning over the railing to get a better view. There isn’t much to see, the water is just as dark as any shadow you might be able to spot, but then something blow begins to… glow? You don’t get a chance to make anything out, because you’re suddenly yanked from the rails by a pissed off looking Fylkir.

 

“Are you insane?” He yells over the roar of the storm, thunder bursting almost directly overhead.

 

“What the hell-” you try, voice echoing in your aching ears, “was that?”

 

Fylkir doesn’t answer, maybe he didn’t see it, swimming beneath the surface, perhaps he didn’t hear your shaking shout. He only pulls you over to where a ladder flaps precariously in the wind, leading up the safety of a much larger ship. The scientist is already halfway up, hanging on for dear life as a gust threatens to blow them away. You take a step towards it, hand up to grab at the almost too-thin plastic, then hear a distressed shout.

 

The scientist points wildly as you glance up in a question, then begins to climb up the ropes almost too fast to be considered safe. Confused, but fearful, you look to see what they are pointing at off the bow. A mountain. No, not a mountain, you realize as it moves closer to the two ships, a wave, one that towers over even the military vessel, close enough for you to see the frothing white at the top.

 

“Go, GO!” Fylkir shoves you upwards.

 

You scramble to get a foothold, fingers slipping as you all to quickly try to scale the ladder in only a portion of the time it should take. The inevitable happens, though, and the loud thunder is replaced with the roar of the water as the wave overtakes the ships, your ears popping from the pressure, lungs screaming for release. You try holding on as tightly as you can, by god, you  _try,_  but something smacks against your face and it’s all over. The current snatches you up, your coat acting like a sail and speeding your departure, boots sucked right off your feet, mind in a panicking tizzy as you spiral deeper into the depths.

 

Something eerie and green splotches against your vision, but the sting of the saltwater blurs your eyes from making out anything more than homogenous blobs. You think you might be seeing some kind of submarine? But you aren’t sure, and you decide that you really need to somehow get back to the surface for air. There’s a decent amount of liquid creeping through your sinuses, and though your tear ducts are working overtime to flush your face clean, there’s nothing they can do.

 

You let out a few bubbles to see which way they go and follow them in that direction. Managing to break the surface just as your chest tightens almost impossibly harder, you gulp in the misty, watery air, swallowing raindrops and coughing them back up in the hazy glow. Your jacket is only dragging you down at this point, but you are hesitant to let it go because the ocean is  _freezing._  You hadn’t fully noticed until now, your muscles beginning to spasm as all warmth left in your body is slowly sucked out by nature. Only after drinking a mouthful of seawater when the current yanks on your raincoat and pulls you back down do you stiffly begin undoing the snaps along your front, letting it drift away with another wave.

 

Where are the ships?

 

You look around, doggy paddling as you numbly try to find either the  _Athena_  or military vessel, hoping they’re still together, or wreckage to suggest neither of them made it. Desperately trying to keep your head afloat against the constant push and pull of the sea, you numbly scan the horizon, eventually coming up empty. If you could only find something large enough to keep you afloat, your chances of survival will go from slim to not so terrible.

 

“L’eggh.”

 

Teeth chattering, you look down, blinking your eyes rapidly as you stare right into the face of a seal. You can barely even see it, you go mostly by the sound it makes and the feeling of whiskers on your cheek to discern what it is.

 

“Aghe.”

 

 _What are you doing all the way out here,_  you don’t ask, because you can’t stop your trembling jaw to speak. The seal positions itself right in front of you, as though it means to carry you to safety, a ridiculous notion, even for you. There’s no way something the size of a seal can somehow ferry your body across the wildly moving sea, but it seems somehow steady in its offer. With no other options, and your legs already cramping with cold, you give in, wrapping your arms loosely around its waist.

 

You entirely expected the two of you to both go down into the water, but only the seal submerges itself, the steady movement of its tail brushes against your chest as it begins to tow you forward. It flows with the tide, not expelling more energy that it needs to, dragging you along with it as the storm rages on overhead. You aren’t entirely sure when you start to lose a part of your consciousness, you can barely tell the difference between hours or minutes, but you feel more alert suddenly as your body gets pulled up onto a pebbly beach.

 

Something warm and thick wraps around your shoulders, a person keeping you upright even though your body continuously attempts to slope in various ways due to exhaustion. Your eyes sting with salt and fatigue, but you try opening them, hoping that you might be able to see whoever it is that rescued you. While you are confident they are trying to rub your arms rapidly, the only thing you can feel is the weird jostle of the motions against your ribs. There is no feeling in your fingertips, not even when they lift up your hands to blow hot air against the nearly frozen flesh.

 

“You’re going to kill me for this,” a familiar voice mutters, before two very strong arms wrap around your body like a bear hug, pulling you down to the ground.

 

You can’t tell if your body is shaking still or not, the ground beneath feels just like the ocean, bobbing up and down with the waves, your instincts still screaming for you to swim with the current.

 

“Don’t go to sleep,” Fylkir… it’s Fylkir who has you, his body as hot as a furnace as he pulls you closer. “Talk to me.”

 

Even after working your jaw a bit to make it move, you still can’t open your mouth to speak. You’re so, so tired, surely it wouldn’t hurt to just… rest for a bit, let the sweet embrace of sleep overtake you. How bad would it be?

 

“Tell me about yourself. How did you end up on the little  _Athena?”_

 

You let out a little shake of your head, neck stiff with cold and aching as millions of tiny pinpricks poke into your skin.

 

“Fine, I’ll talk. You listen.” Fylkir shifts his body, sitting up slightly. “Keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

 

You do as he says, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.

 

“Remember when you first came onto the ship?” He places the back of his knuckles on your forehead, as though checking for a fever. “You were so excited to be there, and I didn’t know why at the time, but it annoyed me. The chipperness you had was just… exhausting, I suppose, and since I never wanted to be a part of the crew in the first place, I was jealous of your enthusiasm. Are you listening?”

 

You let out a hum in response, pulling the heavy coat up over your neck. The rain lets up as suddenly as it began, but the sky doesn’t get any brighter. It must be night, but you are too tired to make any attempts to look for stars.

 

“I was cruel to you, and there isn’t an excuse for it.” Fylkir pauses for a moment. “There’s something else. What do you remember from… from before?”

 

“Before when.” Your voice is raspy and thick with seawater.

 

“After you were caught by the wave. What… what did you see?”

 

There’s something about the way that he is fishing for information that rubs off as odd. Though it’s hazy now, the vagueness of the shape, the glowing, the underwater screaming… “You know what it was, don’t you?”

 

Fylkir shakes his head, you can feel it through the coat, blanket, whatever this it. “We need to focus on signaling for help.”

 

“Signaling-” you sit up, blood roaring in your ears and eyes threatening to black out. “Who? Where are we?”

 

Rough stones surround your immediate area, flecks of black breaking off and sticking to your skin as you wildly move around. The moonlight is bright enough to see the foaming of the water as it assaults the coastline, pushing forward and pulling back as it tries to eat the land bit by bit. A headache begins to develop in between your eyes as you try standing, managing to only get up into a kneeling position with your wobbly legs. None of this is good, you decide, turning only to find a dome-shaped mountain of stone and dirt behind.

 

“Don’t panic,” Fylkir says.

 

“Why should I be panicking, why-  _why are you naked?!”_  You try covering his lower half from your vision with your hand, not exactly wanting to see how far down his vitiligo goes.

 

“I managed to pull you onto this island, but it’s very small, and that volcano might still be active.” He gestures over to the dome, though there isn’t any visible indication that, at some point, it spat out enough magma to create the island you are currently on.

 

Not good, not good, not good.

 

“And,” he adds, after only a moment of hesitation, “the only bit of clothing I have is keeping you from dying of hypothermia.”

 

The heavy coat around your shoulders? You look at again, holding it up to try to see what it’s made of, but can’t tell.

 

“Do you remember how we ended up getting here?” Fylkir asks, leaning back casually like he’s chatting with you in the common room.

 

“I don’t…” you try to think, “remember you being there. It was just me and this- this seal that helped me swim.”

 

“Look, I’m not supposed to tell anyone this… but I think you are definitely the exception. That, around you?” He gestures towards the coat. “That is my sealskin. I am a selkie, and right now, I am in my human form.”

 

You don’t quite catch what he’s saying. “Are you telling me, at this moment, that you’re a-”

 

“I know that it’s difficult to understand.” Is he  _babbling_  right now? “But you just need to understand that you can’t tell anyone about this, not even the other selkies. We both can be in deep trouble, you especially.”

 

You chew on your lip, which has become respectively chapped from the salty water. “Look,” a puff of air escapes your lungs, “not to embarrass you or anything, but I’ve already known for a long while. I think everyone on the crew knows, you aren’t the most subtle person, or selkie, whatever, alive.”

 

It’s Fylkir’s turn to be confused. “What?”

 

“You’ve been spouting doom and gloom throughout the trip, Fylkir, all related to ‘how humans are prying into things they shouldn’t’ and ‘crossing boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed.’ We had a betting pool on what you were, and by the way, Lára owes me a drink at the pub. She and Simone thought you were indoctrinated in some kind of doomsday green cult.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, and you can swear that you see his life playing out in front of his eyes as he tries to discern just  _how_  he’s been obnoxiously obvious. “It was… really that bad?”

 

“I mean, maybe not entirely terrible. But yeah, pretty bad.”

 

Fylkir runs his fingers through his still damp hair, before standing up and facing the sea, letting out a loud sigh. “I will start making a sign that can be seen from any air patrols. If worse comes to worst, I can probably go out and fetch fish for you to eat.”

 

You lay back down as he begins to find decently sized rocks, watching his silhouette blot out the stars as he works. He made you promise to not fall asleep as he arranges the landscape around to spell out  _help,_  since he wants to be able to monitor your breathing while you’re unconscious just in case. And, to be fair, his completely naked body in the crystalline moonlight isn’t exactly the worst thing you have ever needed to focus on to stay awake.

 

“Aren’t you cold?” You ask when he returns, tempted just to pull the skin over your head. Though you don’t say it, you kind of wish for a blanket to lay yourself down on instead of these suspiciously warm-ish but uncomfortable rocks.

 

Fylkir shrugs, coming to sit at an arm’s length next to you. And, yes, you remember how he is that annoying guy that you had to share office space with, but at this moment, you remember how he kept you from drowning when it would have been so much easier to just let you drift off into the sea instead of risking his secret. Also, you would be lying if you said he isn’t easy on the eyes, because he  _is._ Before you let yourself drift off into sleep, you lift the edge of the sealskin as an invitation. Just, you know, to share body heat. No other reason.

 

“I… really shouldn’t,” Fylkir mutters as he scoots closer. “It isn’t big enough for the both of us, so how about I just do this?” One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, though he doesn’t try wiggling underneath the skin with you.

 

With the feeling of someone holding you, the night disappears like a single snap, you close your eyes, then instantaneously opening them to what you think at first is still the dead of night. As your nose pokes out into the air, a bitter kind of chill quickly smarts your eyes, wasting no time in trying to pull your back into hypothermia’s cold embrace.

 

A strange sort of mist rises out from the ground, obscuring anything more than a few arm’s lengths away. Though you can’t see it, you can hear more calm kinds of waves than what plagued your crew the night before. The sun shines from somewhere overhead, though its rays can’t entirely penetrate through the fog. Fylkir is dead asleep at your side, head resting in the crook of his arm as his chest rises and falls with the steady intake of breath.

 

After quickly pondering whether or not you should let him sleep, you decide to at least let him know you want to wander the circumference of the island, just to take stock of what you might be working with for, what your imagination thinks, is the rest of your life. He doesn’t wake up gracefully, snorting as he sits up like a shock, looking around for any kind of danger.

 

“Good morning.” You say, clutching his skin around your shoulders. “Just letting you know that I’m going to go around the beach to stretch my legs.”

 

He starts getting up. “I’ll come with-”

 

“No, you should stay here and rest.”

 

“It isn’t safe for you to be alone.”

 

“Then I guess I’ll stay. Go back to sleep, mister,” you arch your eyebrows, face immediately heating as you try looking away from his naked body, diverting your focus to a prettily shaped rock instead.

 

There’s a crunching of stones up ahead where the beach should fade into the sea, which is the sound only a living being can make. Instinctively you clutch the skin tighter, Fylkir making an almost inaudible grunt as you do so. Out of the mist, you see the bouncing form of another seal, gray and splotchy with black and white spots, and as it approaches, you see it has a grave expression you wouldn’t expect an animal to wear.

 

“Honk.”

 

“Oh,” Fylkir suddenly seems very nervous. “Good day to you too, grand elder.”

 

”Aooonk.”

 

“I completely understand, ma’am. I was just-”

 

“Egh.”

 

Fylkir pauses one moment too long, prompting you to gently pinch his arm and quietly demand what the… grand elder, you guess, said.

 

“She- uh, she wants to know if you’re my mate.” There’s an apprehensive tone in his words, but he refrains from saying anything more, hoping that you might catch his drift if he gently places his hand over your arm.

 

You turn back to the elder seal. “Yeah, I’m- we’ve been married for, gosh, it’s been such a whirlwind-”

 

“Three.”

 

“Years-”

 

_”Months.”_

 

“Months!” You nod enthusiastically placing a hand on his back (too low, too low, move that hand up a bit), and try giving the seal what you believe is a happily married smile. “We’ve just been… chilling. Doing couple stuff. Eating… kale.”

 

“Anyways.” Fylkir interrupts your improv spousal conversation. “Thank you so much for finding us, would you please allow us to sail back to the mainland? My mate would probably appreciate being on the not-so-volatile ground.”

 

The seal glares at you with suspicion as thick as the soupy mist, before honking her ascent and twisting around. Something low pitch sounds off in the direction of the water, you recognize it as a large ship’s horn, signaling that your ride is ready for you to board. Now you aren’t holding onto Fylkir’s hands merely to uphold the facade of a happy couple, you’re doing so because you are incredibly nervous about stepping back into the water after nearly drowning.

 

Once the ocean laps at your ankles, you find a rowboat bobbing with the tide, oars safely within. You hop right over the side, picking up one of the paddles, and wait for Fylkir to join. There is nothing you would rather do that lay down in a fluffy bed with a thousand pillows, and you let that desire burn as fuel in your body. Rowing, though it looks easy from a distance, requires a lot more upper body strength than what you want to give, but you grit your teeth and do it.

 

With the heavy mist, you don’t see the larger boat until you almost collide with it. It’s a cargo ship, one made to last through millions of rough transoceanic routes. Fylkir hooks the wires into the necessary eyes of the rowboat, meticulously checking the cables to make sure everything is alright. The crew of the larger ship begins to hoist you up, slowly, but surely. Hands reach over the railing of the vessel to help you over safely, about a dozen tough looking people in heavy duty work clothes greeting you with varying levels of kindness.

 

Clearly, not everyone is thrilled by your presence, which only deepens your suspension that most of the people on board are also selkies. Someone tosses coats at both you and Fylkir, which you quickly put on before shyly offering his skin back without a single word. He is quick to wrap it around his waist.

 

“So,” one of the burlier ones begins, “you absolute dog, Fylkir. Do you want to introduce us to your special friend here?”

 

It sounds playful, at least you think it does, but Fylkir places a hand on your arm and begins steering you away. “We’re both exhausted, Dagur, please understand that we just need to sleep for a day before we start official introductions.”

 

“Of course, of course. There’s a double bed ready for you, so once you’re done napping…” Dagur winks, aggressively.

 

“Awesome, it’s for  _sex.”_  You say, on the kind of autopilot where you loudly confirm insinuations. “Let’s go, you big beefy man-seal.”

 

Someone whistles, but Fylkir is already pulling you towards a rusting green door, the paint peeling off from exposure to the elements. The stairway is narrow but offers far more wiggle room than that devilish trapdoor from the  _Athena._  The air in the hold has an odd metallic taste to it, strange to breathe in after just a single day away from all civilization. After a long walk down through the hallway, face scrunched as you try to get used to the smell, you and Fylkir get to the room that was generously offered by the crew. It’s small, but there is a bed with a mattress and two pillows, so you are absolutely delighted.

 

The blankets are those cheap felts that are most likely fifty years old and have only seen a washer twice, but you are too fed up with being awake to care. There are no sheets, but you will make do with what you have at the moment because you are  _determined_  to sleep, bed bugs and all. After you begin attempt number one at spreading one of the blankets flat on the bed, a knock sounds on the door. Fylkir, who had been going through the drawers and closet, goes to answer it.

 

After some quiet conversation, you hear the door shut and the squeak of metal and he spins back around. Odd, mismatched sheets are folded nicely in his arms, donations by various crew members since it’s a BYOS (bring your own sheets) living situation. In your near breakdown of emotions state, you are tempted to sit and lovingly write out thank-you cards to every single one of them. Also in the pile; clothes, real clothes for the both of you, perhaps a little big, but you are three minutes from bursting into tears nonetheless.

 

Fylkir helps you set up the bed, holding down the dastardly corners as you pull the sheet forward, and soon enough, you roll into the mattress, pillow tucked under your head. Though the two of you were cuddling just the night before, he seems at a loss on what to do, electing to just stand by the wall.

 

“You can come into the bed, you know.” You pat the sheet next to you, arching your eyebrows, and then, just to tease, you add, “we’re both consenting adults after all.”

 

He lets out a puff of air in dry laughter, awkwardly settling down next to you, as though he is hyperaware every single move he makes. After a moment of staying perfectly still, he says in a subdued tone, “this might make this a little strange, but I’ve always… kind of liked you. More than the other crew members.”

 

Interesting. “Do tell,” you say, shifting to face him.

 

His face is red as he stares directly at the ceiling. “I just… like your spunk, I guess.”

 

“You guess?” You say for the sake of dragging this out further.

 

“Yes. And… your general attitude about things. And your eyes.”

 

You hide your smile in the pillow, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. “Alright. So do you want to ask me out to coffee, or do you want me to ask you out for coffee first?”

 

There’s a pause before his head turns towards you, lagoon green eyes almost gray in the dim light of the cabin. “Do you want to go out for coffee when we get back to the mainland?”

 

“I would love to, seal-man.”


	2. Chapter 2

Creaks and hums of the hull adjusting to varying pressures are always present in a ship, though on the  _Athena,_  you never had to spend the night. Some of the noises you find comforting, the sounds mean that the ship is still in one piece, that everything is going to be okay. But others, like the stomping footsteps upstairs, you find more irritating. Yet, it certainly is better to be irritated mildly and not on a deserted volcanic island that may still be active.

 

You settle back against the pillows, staring at the worn, water damaged plaster of the ceiling, pondering what you will do once you get off the ship. Fylkir already dead asleep, mouth open as he breathes, chest gently rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea. One thing about Fylkir that you’ve discovered is that he is a  _cuddler,_ even when thoroughly unconscious, there’s always one arm snaking around your waist the moment you stop squirming.

The shipments the crew is ferrying across the Atlantic cannot be stalled, so you and Fylkir are stuck aboard until the ship docks at one its ports. Only then you can get off and find a way back to the science base, probably by flight, one of the crew suggested over dinner. But you’re worried. No one’s tried contacting the Coast Guard, so there’s no word about the  _Athena_  or her crew. Even though the captain’s sworn up and down that you’d land a hefty twenty minutes on the two-way once contact is confirmed, the stress of what could have possibly happened to everyone else keeps you up until the early hours of the morning.

 

It could have only been about ten or fifteen minutes of sleep because you wake, nearly twice as groggy, at Fylkir dressing in that heavy gear for work. Thick rainboots clunk against the dense metal of the cabin floor as he approaches your side of the bed, the covers sinking with his weight as he sits by your hip. He places a hand on your shoulder to wake you momentarily to say goodbye. Might as well get up now, don’t want anyone in the crew to think you’re a lazy lug. You sit up, using Fylkir’s shoulder for balance as you wiggle your legs over the edge of the bed, and the two of your sit for just a moment, staring out the smudged and blurry plastic window.

 

“They’re all fine,” he says with conviction, but you know he isn’t certain.

 

“Yeah,” you echo the feeling, but it’s hollow. Letting out a little puff of air, you stand, trying to awkwardly stretch the muscles in your legs before getting dressed.

 

Fylkir waits until you’ve wriggled into a pair of pants before he speaks again. “You know, everyone here  _does_  like you. Even if they figure it out, you know, no one will probably mention it outside the ship.”

 

If you chew on your lips any more than you already have, it will probably become a bloodied mess. “Probably.”

 

“And, look,” Fylkir starts picking at the skin around his fingernails, “we only have to keep up the facade a few more days. After that, we’ll get two rooms at whatever port we land on and figure this out.”

 

“You haven’t annoyed me that much, yet.” The teasing eases your mood somewhat slightly, and Fylkir’s spirits seem to follow.

 

After slipping on a sweater two sizes too big, you’re ready to head down to the kitchens. Fylkir walks you as far as he can before your paths split, his own morning rounds something more along the lines of heavy machinery, making sure the engines and internal systems are in working order. Your chores have to do with washing the oversized pans used to feed the crew, and since the cook is happy for the help, no one seems to think you’re mooching off of them.

 

After a great deal of scrubbing, arms already tired from the repetitive movement, you can finally sit down and eat, one of the last to get food on the ship. At this time, the large mess hall is, for the most part, utterly empty from anyone who would bother listening in on your conversations.

 

Even though Fylkir’s morning routine is over before yours, he hangs around until you can catch a break to eat, sitting across from you with two hot mugs in his hands. The coffee on this ship is a stale, watery excuse for caffeine, but you force yourself to drink a cup for the upcoming lunch rush. The food is alright, mostly canned or frozen for its longevity, though unlike the ship’s crew, you don’t know if you could eat this kind of diet for nine months out of the year.

 

“How are things going in the kitchen?” Fylkir asks, spearing a bit of egg with his fork.

 

“Smooth, but messy. Someone spilled flour all over the wet floor, making the kitchen one big pasty mess.” It’s strange, the small talk. The two of you had barely done anything other than bicker before, this whole charade of being a newly married couple feels undeniably awkward. “How are things down in engineering?”

 

“The same, which is good.” Fylkir clears his throat, mouth quirking at an angle.

 

“Something up?”

 

“Nothing, just…” He clears his throat, cheeks tingling a bit red. “Just so you know… I mean, to keep out story straight, Johannes asked me when we’re planning to have kids.”

 

“Oh, did he?” Standard questions for buddies, you guess, but still, something weird to hear when it’s directed towards you.

 

“I said that we’re waiting, you know, for our income to be stable.”

 

“And what did he say?”

 

“He…” Fylkir coughs, “gave me a box-”

 

“No,” you immediately caught on.

 

“Yes, and it’s the high grade, easy slide stuff.”

 

You stare, incredulous, for just a moment, then burst out giggling. “He handed you a box of condom he had out and ready? Just like… in his bag or pocket?”

 

“In his tool kit, which I suppose isn’t any better.” Fylkir cringes, letting out a short puff of laughter.

 

“That just brings up more questions, and I’m not sure I want to know the answers.” you snort, stabbing a bit of food. Though this conversation has a touch of strangeness, yes, there’s something else in his voice. After taking a long swig of coffee to wash down the last of whatever you just ate (something green), you stand, holding your tray with both hands. Before second-guessing yourself, you bend over and give him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be seeing you tonight, then.”

 

Fylkir blinks, clearly not expecting that response, then furrows his brow ever so slightly. “R-right.”

 

Working in the kitchens, while probably the least consequential job on the whole cargo ship, is by no means easy. The first night you worked loading and unloading dishes into the many, high powered washers, finishing long past midnight, feet aching and elbows creaking. It never got easier from that, because the more you learn, the more the cook deems you responsible enough to take on more. Not that you’re complaining, of course, you’re incredibly grateful for not dying on a volcanic island. But you and Fylkir haven’t exactly had the chance to be together, in a way.

 

On the previous days, you’ve only returned to the room once exhausted beyond measure. The only thing you have had the energy for was to shower off a day’s worth of grease using a harsh kind of soap, then crawling under the covers and collapsing. No words uttered besides a halfhearted  _goodnight,_  but you decide that today will end differently.

 

Much differently.

 

At the very end of the night, the clock nearing twelve, you leave for the showers. Your face is probably red from the steaming hot water used to scour the pans, and the hairs on your arms slicked to your skin with sweat. The water, as per usual, only comes out of the showerhead lukewarm, which, after hours of standing in the heat of five commercial ovens, feels perfect against your nearly cooked skin. Grime and gunk wash down the drain to be filtered and recycled through the pipes, pumps rumbling quietly through walls even as you turn off the faucet and begin dressing.

 

Fylkir is waiting on the bed as you stroll through the door, using a much larger someone’s shirt as a nightgown. You unceremoniously throw your dirty clothes into a cheap plastic laundry basket, laying your towel out over it to dry. Hesitantly, you turn back around, taking a step towards the bed.

 

“So, um,” he clears his throat, “just to make sure I’m not grossly misunderstanding your intentions-”

 

“Get a condom out.”

 

“Yes, ma'am.”

 

Fylkir’s skin is warm, soft in some areas, rough and calloused in others. It’s almost too easy to pull his shirt off, you think, leaning forward to press your lips against his. His mouth is a lot less hard than you had imagined, tongue welcoming as his arms wrap around your waist. There’s a rumble in his chest, though you can’t decide if it’s his breath or a soft moan, you assume that it’s something good.

 

You straddle his waist, pressing your chest up against him, breathing in the ocean-salt scent of his skin. His curls are soft, you discover, as you run your fingers through his scalp, tugging a bit to angle his chin higher. He complies with every stroke, every whimper, every unspoken order you give like with a level of desperation that comes with utter devotion. The way he bends to your will like wet clay is undeniably intoxicating.

 

The giant shirt is pulled from your shoulders, by you or him, you aren’t quite sure. The two of you are no longer distinguishable from one other, becoming an entangled mass of flesh against flesh instead, limbs touching, brushing, and fawning over whatever they can find. Both his and your lips are swollen now, so you take a break from his mouth to kiss up his square jawline, right to his ear, then all the way back down. Fylkir’s tongue snakes out to your nipple, pointed with both the cold air of the cabin and arousal, licking and nudging it with his teeth.

 

You keen into him, a whimper escaping your mouth, grinding against his stiffening crotch, silently cursing yourself. Why had you bothered with putting on underwear after the shower? At the moment, it’s just another obstacle you need to remove before you can satiate your needs.

 

Fylkir is already leaning into the other breast, mouth hot and open, eyes staring up for approval. Your fingers lace around his head, fingers tangling with his auburn locks, and allow a quiet moan to leave your throat. An appreciative gesture, one to show your pleasure at his movements. As he continues, your muscles tighten, growing hot and coiled at the rhythm he sets.

 

It takes effort and finesse to get rid of his pants, the buttons too sturdy, the snaps to complicated for your shaking fingers, the material rough to your touch. But after just a moment of struggling, the two of you are victorious. His boxers go with minimal effort, the feeling of skin against skin like an unspeakably pleasurable relief. You sink into his embrace, arms around his neck, cheek against cheek.

 

In one fluid movement, he bites off the edge of the condom wrapper, pulling it out. You have to take a step back so he can roll it over the head of his cock, pumping it over in his hand just to make sure it’s stiff as a board. Before he can even look up, you push him flat onto the mattress, straddling his waist, pressing your mouth up against his with a certain kind of ferocity that stems directly from passion. His hands grip your hips like a lifeline as he willingly drowns in you, moaning softly with exhilaration.

 

He slides inside you, thick enough to feel his every movement, and lets your body take a moment to adjust. Then he thrusts, once, and sparks fly into your vision. Your eyelashes flutter as you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist to encourage deeper movement. It only takes a minute for him to bend over, placing a hand on either side of your head, face turning pink as blood roars under his skin. When you need a minute to breathe, he’s tender, moving in and out in a far more subdued speed, only quickening his pace when you beg him for more.

 

Fylkir kisses you when he can, sitting up to meet your mouth. Sometimes they’re quick, fluttery pecks that land on your cheeks and nose in immediate succession, while others are slow, lingering, and open-mouthed, softly reminding you with each and every one that he adores you like no one else before. Once he is close to his climax, you can see it in his eyes and his erratic movements, he flips you over onto your back, his fingers find your clit, rubbing it, gently soothing your body over the edge.

 

The orgasm comes over you like a snap, a coil tightening inside your core, releasing like a spring. Your back arches off the mattresses as you loudly whimper, your legs held steady by Fylkir as he continues to thrust. The air itself seems fizzy as you take in a lungful, eyes blinking rapidly, fingers clawing at the sheets for something, anything to hold.

 

As his hips begin to shake, you know it’s over. Fylkir practically collapses against you, body still shaking from gentle aftershocks, lips pressing against your neck in a soft array of kisses. Your fingers tangle into his hair again, brushing some stray strands from his face.

 

This isn’t the end, this is just round one.

**Author's Note:**

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